


To Move Forward, Return

by robotfvckers



Series: Genyatta Strawpoll Prompts [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Penis In Vagina Sex, Piercings, Robot Sex, Sex Work, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, honey pot, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: There are few ways to reveal Reaper's weaknesses. Overwatch hedges its bets.





	To Move Forward, Return

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: female terms used for Zenyatta's genitals (valve, clit), also, it's a sad fic orz  
> Art by [ravenouscannibal](http://ravenouscannibal.tumblr.com/)

****Winston waits until they are alone to ask. Though he is not ashamed of who he once was, Zenyatta appreciates the courtesy. There are others in Overwatch who could take his place, maybe even do it well, but Zenyatta is the only one with experience. It is logical he should be chosen. Another, darker, reason buried within his processes: the job is not without its horrors, and he would do much to protect his friends and teammates from them. **  
**

* * *

“Are you sure you wish to do this?”

Genji is staring, and even with his visor, Zenyatta senses his distress. His student tilts his face towards his pared down frame, what little armor his chassis held stripped to his older, more delicate paneling. Newly revealed lines glow along his body, bubblegum magenta that diffuses into soft, ethereal light through the translucent robe that gapes from throat to hips.

“I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry.” Zenyatta touches Genji’s chin, and his student’s head snaps up. He stifles a chuckle and the deep, overwhelming affection he has for Genji.

He would not tell him now. Perhaps never. It is enough to be close to him, to guide him as much as he can. Genji’s infatuation would fade, in time. There would be someone else to capture his attention, to love him as he deserved. The focus he places on Zenyatta would waver when the proper person made their intentions known. Jesse, perhaps, or Dr. Ziegler. Maybe someone they do not yet know, and Zenyatta tells himself it is an exciting thing.

Maybe one day he will believe it.

* * *

Reaper is an enigma. Zenyatta has only seen him on the other side of battle, Winston and Tracer’s voices crackling through his comm as black wisps twist and swirl into human form. He battles like a force of nature controlled, bombastic and sure; Zenyatta is nearly unable to complete his mission due to his interference. He remembers with a tightening of his chassis the red gleam of Reaper’s eyes turned towards him, boring into his array, form billowing and reshaping, humanoid, then nothing like a human at all.

He lets the fear touch him, admires the shape of it, accepts it before letting it go, before passing beyond and touching the Iris.

Reaper is gone once the light fades, though the weight of his stare lingers.

* * *

The feeling surges with startling clarity when he sees Reaper again. Intel supplies that he preferred omnics, for what reason, they could not say. Zenyatta is an older model, and compared to his smoother, upgraded peers he looks outdated. Still, he holds himself upright as the others twitter and chirp like beautiful birds. They whisper about him with palms flattened to their voice boxes, graceful and pretty like he could only dream, but their attentions shift as Reaper emerges. One moment, emptiness, the next, a man with a scarred face, dark skin and darker eyes.

 _Gabriel._ Genji’s voice crackles from his comm, and Zenyatta cannot suppress his shiver. Gabriel Reyes. He is someone they know. Someone with an in, someone with a vendetta against Overwatch. Someone who would never leave a man behind, who sweetened his coffee with sugar and laughed when anyone mentioned it.

Zenyatta stills as the other omnics approach Reaper, each fawning, pressing eagerly against him, all metal hands and soft, synthetic fingers. An old face, then. A frequent customer. A good one, if their needful touches hold meaning.

He is trapped in indecision, and Genji watches through his eyes. Zenyatta must move, must assert himself in the sea of gleaming, polished metal, but among their soft curves and firm, synthetic muscle, how can he hope to draw Reaper’s gaze?

Only he needs not worry at all.

Zenyatta, standing in the messy line of pleasure omnics, does not waver when Reaper nudges the others aside with a quiet, wicked huff. If he had a heart, it would’ve stopped as Reaper stalks towards him, eyes brown but with the faintest glow, a ghostly mimicry of the gaze directed over smouldering rubble and fallen agents.

He need not say anything, but he does. His hand, warm but impossibly heavy, settles on his shoulder.

“You.”

And he holds back his tremble, shaken like he has not been in years.

“This way, sir.” Zenyatta says, and it is smooth and confident like he does not feel, turning to lead Reaper back to his quarters.

* * *

Reaper is not what he expects. When they enter his room, he seats himself on the plush sofa and drapes his arms on the headrest, reclining but not quite tensionless.

“Would you like a drink?”

Reaper shakes his head, beckons Zenyatta closer with a quick curl of his index finger.

“What’s your name?”

It is easy to remember, within this environment, pared down and on display, that there was a time he could not deliver an answer. Service models did not receive individual handles, did not even have names amongst each other.

Zenyatta lights incense, and his memory banks supply sandalwood and warm spice, though the smell that registers on his sensors is perfumed and sweet. He hums as he turns, the short hem of his robe riding his thighs as he approaches.

“I am a SE107.” He comes to a halt before him, array illuminating the high planes of the man’s face in soft pinks, though the divots, the scars, fall deeper into shadow.

He is handsome.

“That isn’t what I asked. Closer.”

Their legs brush as Zenyatta complies. Reaper reaches out, eyes narrowed; the man’s fingers look human enough, but viewed closely their shape wavers as certainly as it did on the battlefield.

Holding form, then, a charade, an illusion for Zenyatta’s benefit. Maybe for his own as well. The touch is warm like it was the first time, and he registers callouses against his core, fingers tracing the pentagonal shell of his power unit. They slip to the side, taking the edge of his robe with it, catching against the struts at his waist. Gentle, curious. His fans pick up.

“The way you hold yourself. you’re older. But that isn’t all.”

Zenyatta whirs, mind racing to glean Reaper’s intention, why he would pursue such line of reasoning. He holds back a chirp as Reaper explores him, slipping his hands between cables, to his core, delicate and slender like it hasn’t been in years, realizing he hasn’t been touched in such a way in so long. Not with such an intense gaze fixed upon him, not without the shroud of darkness and desperate need for affirmation shining in green eyes.

The memory washes over him. His student’s trembling hands catching against his frame, the pattering of rain against the tin roof above them loud and urgent. Tears track over scarred cheeks. Lips, wet and hot against his throat as Genji urges him onto the straw-stuffed cot, his name a whispered plea against his chassis.

It had been only once. Once where he could not resist Genji, could not resist comforting him in a way that had not been new to either of them, but had been completely different than any time before. New and terrifying in a way they had never discussed after. Not truly.

“Kneel.”

Zenyatta sinks to the floor, stiff and weak, focus split between two heady instances on the illusion of time.

Fingers caress his face. Claws. Zenyatta starts at the pressure against his mouth, seeking. His jaw widens, sensors primed. The smoke is not smoke at all. Nanites, near microscopic, buzz against the small gap of his intake chamber.

He is about to apologize, his model is too old for what the man wishes, but the claw fizzles, disburses, its makeup shifting against his sensors, and the rush of data freezes him almost as much as the sensation of touch in an untouched, secret place.

He keens, jerking away, but he doesn’t get far, not with Reaper’s other hand sealing around his throat. The panic is there, then not; the grasp is to steady, not harm.

“You have too much personality. An aura, if you believe that kind of thing.” Reaper’s finger, the ghost of it, maps his mouth, filling the space, stroking and wiggling, dipping back into the tiny channel of his throat. He shakes, voice trapped in its box.

“Are you afraid?”

Zenyatta’s array brightens, flickers. The smoke solidifies, flattening against his neglected sensors, and he whines, harsh with feedback.

“Hm, no. Fear isn’t what you’re feeling.”

His core pulses, white hot with the strange, fluttering sensations. Embarrassment blips in his mind as his lower body onlines from the miniscule stimulation. His nub flickers, glows, settling into a warm pink, the short piercing attached to it an almost uncomfortable weight. Each jerk and tremble sets the jewelry in motion, hot, teasing, dizzying tugs.

His sensitivity levels are the same as they ever were. So why—

Reaper undulates his finger, face unreadable as he fucks Zenyatta’s mouth, plays with his sensors as the omnic hiccups and quakes.

“Is this truly your desire?” Zenyatta asks, voice rough and slow, hard to articulate when his processes were stacked with tasks, locked up in pleasure. He reaches between Reaper’s thighs, but the man shoves his hand away.

“Presumptuous.” Reaper growls, yanking Zenyatta into his lap like he weighs nothing at all.

His piercing slaps against Reaper’s waist, and he grunts, hands settling in a vice on his shoulders as he frames Reaper’s thighs in an obscene spread. His valve fills, warms, the first dribble of slick depressurizing.

“O-oh.” Zenyatta whimpers against the side of Reaper’s head, hunched low and ashamed while the man’s hands settle on his hips.

Too long, it had been too long. He wasn’t ready, had forgotten how strong and overwhelming his original purpose is when he allows it to take him, uninhibited and intoxicating.

Zenyatta’s grip tightens, lights brightening as Reaper slips a claw between his legs, pinches the piercing, rolling the gem between his fingers while he stares at Zenyatta’s array.

 _Keep looking at him_. Genji’s voice cuts in, and that shakes Zenyatta to his core, hearing that voice, tight and unsure, echoing in his comm. He dips his head to look between their bodies, and watches Reaper tug and twist the piercing while the shocks of it ricochet directly to his pulsing clit, nearly too much to take.

“Pretty thing. You like it?” Reaper murmurs, rolling the gem in his hands, each tug, harsher than the last, working smart little pops of noise from its owner.

“Yes.” Zenyatta whimpers, hips stuttering forward, trying to catch his valve against that large teasing hand. “More.”

“There’s that tone again.”

Reaper lowers his hand then, inch by inch, and he feels the silicone of his clit stretch, an addictive, heightening burn, intensifying by the second. Pain bubbles at his center, but it does not deter the pleasure, valve clenching, slick dripping in little plips, dampening the cushions. Reaper grabs the chain higher up, near where it latches to his clit, almost, _almost_ touching him, and it’s like Reaper senses his intentions; he shifts away when Zenyatta grinds his lower body against him.

“Don’t move.” The man swivels his hand, quick little motions that burn and ache and almost feel like true pressure. He knows not why he fights the sounds that spill from his voicebox, and the longer it goes on the less he finds he can, quaking even as his thighs are locked in place, chirping, whining when Reaper’s other hand teases past his dripping valve.

_Zenyatta._

His array snaps online at the sound of his name. Genji’s voice, not Reaper’s. Safe. He moans when Reaper slides his fingers along his opening, flattens his palm against it. A confused, needy click escapes, then more sound as Reaper strokes his clit at last, swiveling around it with one calloused pad.

“Where do you go when I touch you?” Reaper asks, pressing his nub more insistently, tracing around his valve, shifting his teal lips, the glide obscenely smooth with how he’s leaking. “Are you thinking of someone else? Talk about bad service.”

Zenyatta shakes his head, the hypnotic motion of Reaper’s fingers teasing him while the pleasure builds and shocks its way through every synapse overwhelming and unstoppable.

“W-w—” Zenyatta stammers, hips swiveling, rearing back, uncertain. “I-’m—close—”

Reaper laughs, dark and pleased. “Astute.” Then, lower. “Turn around.”

Zenyatta's hips catch, jerk once more against nothing when Reaper draws his hand away, staring up into his array, smugness along every line in his face, but something else too, a hardness in his eyes.

Omnic partners. The attentiveness. The nanites.

 _The heart of a man still beats inside of me_. Genji had said once. Reaper didn’t think he was worthy. Anonymous, synthetic partners, ones he still treated well when normal customers would not. A non-organic body, masquerading as flesh and blood. A weight settles in his chest.

“No.” Zenyatta says, and Reaper’s expression hardens. He tries not to tremble as he cups the edge of Reaper’s chin, awed by the rough texture of his beard, so human-like.

“I want to see you.”

Reaper, Gabriel, studies his face, as if he could read him, sense his thoughts. Then the man laughs, bright and bitter, shrugs his shoulders, brushes off the air of vulnerability as his facade fades, little by little, like watching time lapse at many times its speed. Red replaces brown, glowing like his own optics, scars deepen, darken; his skin grows ashen, claws lengthening, form wavering.

He had allowed fear once. This time, he feels something else entirely.

Zenyatta reaches for him, hands at the hem of his pants, but he touches hot flesh instead; all of Gabriel, his clothes, his hair: nanites. He’s naked beneath the wisps of smoke, and Zenyatta finds his cock, fat and hard, and strokes it without hesitation, Gabriel hissing at the contact, curling into Zenyatta as he works him in fluid, needy motions.

It’s hard to focus, pleasuring Gabriel as his core throbs and tightens, the need to be filled overwhelming every thought, every process keyed to being stretched to the brink. He hears Genji on his comm, but he can’t understand, grasps Gabriel’s cock at the base, butting his glans against his valve, groaning as he sinks down in a vicious, smooth slide.

Zenyatta throws his head back, groan echoing Gabriel’s as he adjusts, stabilizes. His sensors pulse within, overclocked with feedback, flooding his systems with pleasure. He uses Gabriel’s shoulders for balance as he fucks him, shaking, dragging his body up, nearly all of Gabriel slipping out before slamming back down. He can’t do it too many times, eager, greedy for the stimulation, forgetting himself with high-pitched chirps.

Then the man’s claws settle on his hips, guide his body slower, smoother, the change of pace unwanted, and Zenyatta thrashes against it.

“Selfish. Chasing your own pleasure.” Gabriel growls, form shivering. “Patience. I’ll give you what you want.” The smoke tickles against his body, tracing, mapping, slipping into panels and delicate circuitry that is too sensitive, too fragile, for normal touch.

Zenyatta crumples, curling over the man fucking into him, enveloped in the questing nanites whispering against every sensor until he can’t tell what’s being touched, only that it’s happening. His voice warbles, breaking high, fingers twisting into the couch, and again Genji’s voice rings through.

_Watch. Let me see._

“I—can’t—!” Zenyatta wails, and Gabriel groans against his throat, teeth teasing along his cables, tongue long, longer than it should be, hot, wet and thick, curling around him. He slams Zenyatta’s hips down harder, granting no reprieve.

“You can.” Gabriel says, and his valve aches, swells, widens as the man beneath him stretches him to the brink.

Nanites, he realizes, forcing him open, coiling deep within his chassis, writhing against sensors that only the largest customers could touch, and never with such attention, never so fully as this—

“C’mon, you needy thing.” The man barks, harsh and deep, near strangled as he pistons into him with a force that would injure a human.

His hand fumbles between them, claws catching against the piercing, tugging the gem in quick, messy jerks, and the pain blooms, then bursts with pleasure.

Zenyatta sobs, rocking down to meet Gabriel’s thrusts, insides recalibrating, clenching and spasming in harsh, hard resets that register as pleasure laced with pain. His array glows, shining in the sea of nanites whispering around him, holding him down, stroking him, never letting him ease away from the overwhelming waves of feedback.

He returns, cradled in Gabriel’s arms, registering soft firmness at his back. Gabriel hefts Zenyatta’s legs over his shoulders, joining him on the bed, pinning him with his eyes as easily as he pins him with his body,  sinking back inside him in a molten slide.

Zenyatta barely moves, array hazy, audio receptors picking up the wet, slapping noises that jostle his whole frame with their force.

_Zenyatta. Master, are you ok?_

“Ye—s.” He warbles over the sound of Gabriel fucking him. Claiming him. “Y-yes.”

“Surprised you can still talk.” Gabriel says, smirk in his voice but not on his lips, too busy pursed in concentration.

Gabriel’s pupils swim in red, and Zenyatta focuses on that burning gaze, hands locked on Gabriel’s shoulders, legs twisted behind him, never letting him withdraw fully, his thrusts deep and unyielding, sensors haywire with it. He isn’t sure how long it lasts, body overclocked and nearly offlined. Another patch of time disappears when he overloads again, and Gabriel’s groans, inhumanly deep, clouding his chrome, grow as desperate as his thrusts. His valve is so heated and slick he barely feels him come, only knows when he finally withdraws and a rush of fluids soaks the sheets between his thighs.

Zenyatta jerks weakly as claws tease his abused hole, puffy and sensitive, voicebox grinding out soft pleas. His power level is low, so low he cannot parse feedback from hallucination. Genji’s voice echoes through the comm, worried, heated. Panting his name. Gabriel stares down at him, appraising, like he’s seeing him for the first time.

He trembles as the aftershocks crest over him, sharp punches of bugged feedback, maybe the nanites are a part of him now, keeping him on edge and hazy-pleased. Genji speaks, low and desperate, as Gabriel teases him, even after he is spent, should be leaving Zenyatta in his own mess, his desires slaked.

_Why?_

His vision dims, array taking on a graininess that signals imminent shutdown.

Zenyatta cannot even panic as Gabriel drags his claws down his faceplate, smearing teal slick beneath his own painted eye.

“Give Shimada my regards, monk.”

  
Art by [ravenouscannibal](http://ravenouscannibal.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
